


Grace

by aprettysmalldose



Series: My King [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adept Courtier Stiles, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, Jealousy, King Derek, M/M, Manipulation, Mpreg, Past Relationship(s), Rough Sex, Trigger warnings:, bottom!Derek, mentions of infancide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprettysmalldose/pseuds/aprettysmalldose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I was prompted for spurned!stiles provokes the wrath of jealous caveman!derek and this is what happened.  Basically, I have no idea what happened except feelings crept into it and yea caveman!stiles actually sorta wound up happening instead? aLSO MPREG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace

**Author's Note:**

> see trigger warnings in tags

Stiles can feel his eyes on him, hot and searing from across the room. Surely if he were to look up and meet the king's gaze he would burn.

 

Stiles doesn't look up.

 

He trails a suggestive finger up Countess Martin's bare arm and shoulder instead. A more circumspect man might save his dalliances for the gardens or a shadowed gallery, far from the light and music of the fête. A man more concerned with his self-preservation would be considering no dalliances at all.

 

Stiles is none of those things.

 

Not tonight. Not anymore.

 

It’s something of a surprise to him that the countess is allowing him, though. This isn’t exactly a quick roll in the hay they’re engaging in here. Stiles was expecting to have to consort with an enemy to achieve his goal tonight.

 

Not that the countess is an _ally,_ particularly; ambivalent would be the most flattering term Stiles could attribute to her.

 

The king is not a _\- kind -_ man. (Perhaps only his lovers know that his caress can be gentle, and his touch can be soft). The countess certainly does not _not,_ fear the king, she's an ambitious woman, not a stupid one. She must be certain in her ability to protect herself from royal retribution. Neither of them is under any illusion as to what Stiles is offering here.

 

He has his reasons, and she has hers; it’s really none of his concern. Knowing her reputation as he does, he’s no doubt that if he tried to _make_ it his concern, she’d likely set him on fire. Herself, though no one would see her do it.

 

The peerage is on edge tonight, the figures they cut as they dance are tighter, the laughter of the evening sharper, the masklike gleam of their smiles are brighter.

 

For three weeks Stiles has been ignored. His nights are long, cold and empty. The king has not sent for him, has not come for him, has not written or responded to any of Stiles’ questions, overtures or missives. Stiles has tried the usual avenues, then he moved on to the clever avenues and then he'd even resorted to avenues of the emotional kind, baubles and remembrances aimed at reminding the king of apple-scented gardens and rainswept pine, the (literal) springtime of His Majesty’s favor.

 

Two nights ago, in a fit of daring and desperation, he smuggled himself through the palace to knock at the king's bedroom door. He'd used up too much credit with his earlier attempts to make it any further than the receiving chamber, but the royal confidantes had relayed his presence to the king.

 

Derek had sent him away. And to add insult to injury, the king hadn’t even bothered to personally dismiss Stiles, he’d had the _servants_ do it _._

 

That had hurt. In all the ways it was possible for that denial to hurt him, it had. It had been a blow to his head, his heart, his pride and ego. It had been a blow to his following and standing at court. As the peerage glitters and smiles, dances and plots, Stiles is about two cold glances and a dismissive finger wave away from complete and utter _disgrace,_ and everyone in this ballroom knows it.

 

Tonight is Stiles' challenge, his shot fired from across this wall of distance and disregard that Derek has raised. His gauntlet thrown at Derek's feet. If he's going to fall from favor, he's going to fucking fall from favor. He’s going to earn his demise.

 

There are power plays and shifting politics in the room, and Stiles ignores them all. None of it matters, not the threat of exile or disfavor or very real personal danger, (no one has forgotten the fate of the Lady Blake).

He's a man possessed, and telling the world, (this world of glittering jewels and elegant words), to burn, suits him just fine.

 

None of it means a damn thing.

 

He dances with Lydia, (he earned the privilege of her name very publicly in front of the Royal Confidante Lahey, who has never cared for him), he feeds her fruit and he makes her laugh in front of just the right people.

 

Neither of them looks at the king.

 

It won’t matter if His Majesty can see them or not, whispers of Stiles’ exploits are no doubt crawling continuously into his ears, but he makes no move or action.

 

Fine, then.

 

Both he and the countess are consummately skilled, and they slip out at just the right moment and are seen by just the right people down several different shadowed hallways on the way to her palace suite, his lips on her neck (impersonal but no one who sees will be in a position to make that distinction), her hands tangled in the lacings of his shirt (dispassionate, but no one but the two of them knows the calm measured beats of their hearts).

 

He could have taken it all the way, he supposes. Stiles believes that Lydia was prepared to if that's what it took, but he ends it with a nod and a look into her too-wise eyes. He gives her a questioning brow and she nods thoughtfully, tapping her fan against her lips. Whatever it was she was after, it appears she succeeded. Then she turns one way, down a deserted hall, and he another, into an empty servants’ corridor.

 

After a respectable amount of time has passed Stiles sends for late refreshments to his room, a tactful (in any other situation) way of alerting those that monitor such things of his presence in his room.

 

It's another long, cold, empty night. Stiles passes it in silence, lips pressed tightly together and arms wrapped around himself, standing by the window as he watches the moon trace its way slowly across the sky.

 

The king does not send for him nor appear, but then again, neither does a company of guardsmen break down his door to haul him off to death, dismemberment or imprisonment, though Stiles supposes there's still time for that.

 

As the night ends Stiles’ mouth twists with the bleak truth; he has but one avenue left. It was the one he should probably have led with at the start of this, but he did have his pride.

 

As dawn lightens at the window, Stiles snorts at the irony. The one message he can guarantee that the king would pay his entire kingdom to hear, and there is literally no one in the kingdom to who will deliver it (or be able to deliver it) to the king.

 

After last night's performance, no one in Le royaume de Phare-sur-Collines is going to touch him or his affairs with a reinforced regiment.

 

Stiles ignores breakfast (which is irresponsible of him, he supposes, but there's no way he'd be able to keep it down) and spends his whole day drafting the message to the king. This is one thing he'd give anything to say to Derek personally, but he doubts even if he were the Eugenides, thief of lore, that he'd be able to steal his person close enough to Derek for long enough to spit it out.

 

Stiles has settled in to spend all night scheming for a way to see that his painstakingly worded missive finds its way into Derek's hands. That turns out to be premature of him, because Vernon Boyd, personal enforcer, appears to summon Stiles to the quarters of the king.

 

Sending Vernon Boyd to bring Stiles hence is at least _something,_ even if it is only evidence of the king’s displeasure. But that’s better than the complete and utter _nothing_ that the king had been sending Stiles before, and it could always be worse. The king’s response to Stiles could have been evidence of his extreme displeasure, in which case Stiles would most likely be dead.

 

Stiles is marched very publicly to Derek’s rooms and ushered in with the bare minimum of ceremony through the chambers until (a little dazed and not quite sure how it happened), he is deposited before the king inside the royal bedchamber.  They are alone, and the door closes with a clang of finality behind Stiles, even though it’s solid wood, and not able to make a clanging sound at all.  The aura of finality Stiles is feeling right now is real enough though.

 

Stiles regards Derek mutely (that no doubt throws the king off his guard), taking in the clench of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils. Derek is _royally_ pissed. Good. The king’s feet are bare, his loose overshirt untucked.

 

The silence stretches between them. But all Stiles has done since this _whatever it is_ that’s happened between them is fill it up with his words and actions and fucking _pleas_ , it’s Derek’s turn to put forth a little effort.

 

Stiles arches an eyebrow and levels an unimpressed look at Derek.

 

That appears to finally spur Derek into action. He points an angry finger at Stiles and says coldly and deliberately, “You. Are _mine.”_

 

And God help him if that’s not what Stiles has been trying to re-affirm this whole time, what he knows in his soul to be true, but now that he’s getting it he feels like being just the tiniest bit contrary.

 

“Since when?” he asks with a truly haughty sneer in his voice. Alright, maybe a lot of bit contrary.

 

Derek flings the goblet of water he’d been absently holding at a far wall and stalks toward Stiles.

 

Stiles juts his chin out combatively but then hastily rethinks that and braces for impact, because Derek doesn’t slow. Stiles expects Derek to slam him up against the wall (it wouldn’t be the first time the walls in this room have taken some abuse in the throes of passion) but Derek settles for backing him up and sort of pressing him into it, one corded arm pressed hard and high on Stiles’ chest, holding him in place.

 

“Well finally, some attention,” Stiles snarls.

 

He can see the moment when Derek gets it. It was never all that complicated, at least not on Stiles’ end, anyway. Derek's eyes widen and his mouth falls open. He seizes Stiles' face in between his hands and covers Stiles' mouth with his own, an urgency and violence in his kiss that Stiles returns in kind.

 

Relief almost sinks Stiles to his knees. They still have this. Stiles can work with this. A strangled sound escapes from Stiles as Derek grips the back of Stiles’ thighs and lifts him up onto the nearest table, scattering expensive trappings of royalty everywhere in their frenzy to have more of each other.

 

Stiles is being kissed breathless, Derek is _literally taking Stiles’ breath away with his mouth_ , and _Gods,_ Stiles had missed this, needed this, wanted this, was this, _is_ this. Stiles gasps desperately for breath as Derek mouths aggressively down his neck and gives in to a wanton moan as he feels Derek suck a mark just above his collarbone.

 

“Yes, yes, more, Derek _please_ ,” he pants as he rocks his hips up into his lover, his king, his love, his everything; into Derek into his his _his._

 

“Stiles, Stiles, _no,_ ” Derek groans and pulls away shaking, leaving Stiles dazed and wanting, his lips swollen and his cock aching.

 

“Why,” Stiles moans and squeezes his eyes shut, body shuddering as he tries to regain control over himself, “Why? I don’t understand.”

 

“Why did you,” Derek pauses, then rephrases, “Did you, with the countess, last night--”

 

Stiles cuts him off with a bark of laughter, and says, catching Derek’s eyes with a direct gaze, “You know I didn’t.”

 

“Then why did you-?” Derek runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated, but Stiles cuts him off again.

 

“You’ve _completely_ ignored me for three weeks, _Your Majesty_ ,” Stiles hops off the table and paces back and forth, body singing with adrenaline and shivering with nerves, “for _three weeks_ , not so much as a fucking note or a even a glance, _nothing?_ What was I supposed to do? I did it to provoke a response, _any response,_ okay?”

 

A gasp of what sounds suspiciously like relief heaves its way out of Derek, and he slumps slightly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Stiles is suddenly furious again, like he was last night at the fête, done, through, completely over this _neglect._

 

“You don’t get to be relieved,” he shouts, beside himself with his anger, “Who have you been replacing me with? Who have you been spending your nights with? This whole fucking kingdom knows it wasn’t me! I’m the one who deserves some relief, I’m the one who should be getting an explanation!” He takes a break from his tirade to suck in some air and is shocked into silence by the look of horror on Derek’s face.

 

“Stiles,” he croaks, “that’s, no, _no_ , never.” He reaches out to Stiles but stops halfway, his hand trembling. “All I do is think about you, want you, _Stiles,_ I haven’t been sleeping I-I don’t even want to _eat_ without you.”

 

“Then for the love of all that’s holy, _why_?” Stiles voice cracks and he does his best not to descend into a hormonal ball of weeping onto the floor.

 

“Stiles,” Derek looks at him like he’s about to deliver him news of someone’s death, “you’re pregnant.”

 

Stiles gapes at him. Like a fish. He can feel his mouth opening and closing. Like a fish.

 

“ _Of course I know I’m pregnant.”_ Stiles leaves the ‘you idiot’ unsaid, but they can both hear it anyway, hanging in the air between them.

 

Now Derek’s the one impersonating a fish. Then he sports a look of royal indignation as he says, “Well, why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Stiles lets out another bark of laughter. “Well apparently you already _knew that_ , didn’t you?”

 

“But you didn’t,” Derek observes.

 

Stiles heaves a sigh and clenches at his hair, resuming his frustrated pacing. “I didn’t tell you because of Kate,” Stiles admits, and immediately Derek’s face closes off and he takes an instinctive step backwards. “No, no, not like you’re thinking, because I didn’t mean, I mean, it’s a mistake--” at that Derek makes a pained sound, “No, no, not like that either! _Argh, this is why I took my time telling you, I knew I was going to bungle it,”_ Stiles groans.

 

“I mean it was an accident, I didn’t get pregnant on purpose, because we’ve never _talked about it_ and we’ve never talked about Kate at all it’s just _I forgot to drink my fucking tea, one fucking time,_ and then I was afraid to tell you because, we’re not married, you know, well obviously you know that,” Stiles runs his hands through his hair, “but I didn’t want you to think that I got pregnant on _purpose_ not that I don’t want to get _purposely_ pregnant with you, _again_ something we’ve never talked about,” Stiles fights the urge to fall to his knees and clutch at Derek to convey his sincerity, “but I didn’t want you to think it was politically motivated or anything because it’s not, and I didn’t want you to think I’d, hold it over you or anything I just…” Stiles trails off.

 

He can’t read the expression on Derek’s face.

 

“What do you know about the late Queen?” Derek asks flatley.

 

“I--just--what is known, I guess, she was carrying the heir, your heir and she, she went mad, and--she--” Stiles shudders and pushes through it, “She tried to abort the child and neither one survived the attempt.”

 

Derek’s eyes fall shut and he nods. “She was always mentally unbalanced, something her family hid from mine and wasn’t brought to light until after her--her _death_ , but one of the ways it manifested was through extreme jealousy. After I found out she was pregnant she couldn’t stand all the love I gave to our unborn child, the preparations I made, the attention I paid to her belly and the life within. I knew she was unhappy during her pregnancy, but I never dreamed she’d--and when I tried to make her feel better I  made it worse and…” This time it’s Derek’s turn to trail off.

 

“So you’re trying to protect me and our child from the same fate,” Stiles says dispassionately, his heart like ice in his chest that Derek could even _remotely_ fear that Stiles would--

 

“ _No_.” Derek reaches for Stiles again, eyes wide. “When I found out you were pregnant, I, I was overjoyed, but then I was afraid, I was afraid I was going to be unable to control myself, and that I would,” Derek pauses, but continues on in the face of Stiles’ pair of raised eyebrows, “I was worried that I would, well, _smother_ you, for lack of a better term. Because, as you said, it’s something we’ve never discussed, and I wasn’t sure how you would feel about it, what you would want and I was afraid.” Derek takes a deep breath, “I was afraid that you _wouldn’t_ want to be pregnant so all this time I was trying to think of how to tell you and propose to you without making you think the pregnancy was the only thing I cared about. Also,” Derek levels a severe look at Stiles, “you’re in a delicate condition, physical intimacy is something we should both refrain from, I don’t want either you or the child injured because I am unable to control myself in your presence.”

 

Stiles is, well, Stiles is feeling like Winter Celebration has come early to be honest. That was a veritable _treasure trove_ of information that Derek just imparted right there. The king is such an old _fuddy-duddy,_ the majority of his subjects have no idea, Stiles swears, ‘delicate condition’ honestly, and he was trying to spare _Stiles’_ feelings and he was worried about smothering him and what was that about proposal?

 

“Derek,” Stiles breathes, “If you _ever_ try and cut me off like that again, I actually will go mad, you understand?” Derek nods, his face stricken. “I mean, that was completely the wrong way to handle it, I understand why you did, but you will never, ever do that to me again.”

 

“Never,” Derek croaks.

 

“And I’m sorry for being afraid and keeping the news of my pregnancy from you, that was also wrong, and I never should have withheld that from you.” Stiles takes a deep breath, and steels his heart, “You do want our child, with me, together, permanently, you’re happy about,” he gestures to vaguely to his stomach, “This?”

 

“Yes, yes, Stiles of course I,” Derek swallows. “I love you.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles squeaks, then clears his throat and tries again, “and all this time I’ve been trying to keep you interested in my body whilst keeping you spared from my feelings because I thought that was what you wanted, and I, well, I needn't have bothered, apparently.”

 

“You love me?” Derek whispers, so vulnerable and open it hurts and Stiles’ whole being quakes with the knowledge that he has the kingdom, the heart of it, in the palm of his hand, that _he_ has somehow been entrusted with the keeping of it.

 

“Derek,” Stiles whispers right back, “You have got to be the only person in this whole kingdom who _doesn’t_ realize that.”

 

Derek is still looking at him with disbelief.

 

Stiles takes a step forward. “I love you,” he says, and then Derek is (losing control around him again, Stiles is unable to keep himself from noticing with glee) as he reaches for Stiles and then they’re twined around each other, kissing every bit of skin they can reach. Stiles is shocked to see his that his hands are trembling as he reaches up to cradle Derek’s face in between them. Derek’s eyes search his face desperately as Stiles gently applies pressure, and draws Derek down onto his knees before him. He can see the shudder of gratitude that rocks the king’s frame as Stiles presses Derek’s lips to his stomach, and he wraps his arms around Stiles and buries his head against Stiles as he breathes him in.

 

They stand like that for what feels like an eternity, Stiles filled with the glow of something bright and fierce and as yet unnamed, absently petting his hands through Derek’s hair.

 

“You know,” he says, conversationally, “There’s not really all that much going on in there right now.”

 

“Mine,” is all Derek is able to mumble incoherently.

 

Stiles brings his hands down to tilt Derek’s face up. “You know,” he begins, a smirk curving his lips, “I’m a big, strong, semi-muscular man with a raging libido that is only going to get stronger once my pregnancy bulge makes an appearance--” Derek groans and his eyes dilate into almost pitch blackness, making Stiles’ breath hiss out before he continues, “so you know, if you want to fuck me through the wall or into the mattress, I’m not made of glass, nor will I break. It’s actually good for everyone involved, healthy exercise for the child, bonds of love for the parents it’s win-win, really, there’s not a king in history who’s been able to pass up something like that--” And then Stiles is laughing in victory as Derek lifts him up and throws him onto the bed.

 

He’s laughing until Derek crawls onto the bed and over him and then his breath is catching in his throat. Derek leans down and Stiles reaches up to him and then their mouths are sealed together again, deep and passionate and slow. Derek strokes gentle hands down Stiles’ arms, his sides, along his neck.

 

“Derek,” Stiles gasps, as Derek licks and sucks his way down Stiles’ neck to worry at the mark he’d made earlier, “What did I say about being not made of glass?”

 

Derek pulls off his collarbone and strokes Stiles’ forehead with a thumb as he looks down at him. There’s a slight frown building in the crease of his eyebrows. “It’s hard,” he admits, “My instinct is to worship you, and it’s difficult to override that. I can work on it,” Derek licks his lips and his breathing picks up, “So for tonight, I want you to fuck me. You can be as rough as you need, and I won’t have to worry,” He smirks slightly and adds as an afterthought, “Win-win.”

 

“Fuck,” Stiles hisses, arousal climbing so quickly it feels like it’s slamming its way through him. They both groan as Stiles takes ahold of Derek and deftly flips him underneath him. Stiles cages Derek in between his arms, covers him with his body. Derek shudders underneath him and Stiles can relate to that feeling and his breathing picks up.

 

“Where to start with you?” Derek’s eyes fall closed and a shiver runs the length of his body. “What to _do_ with you?” At that, Derek moans.

 

Stiles yanks up on Derek’s loose overshirt, exposing the hard muscles of his stomach and chest. “This, off,” He demands. Derek complies, then Stiles’ hands are at the lacings on his breeches and with a few twists of his wrists, Derek’s cock springs free, hardening beautifully and already flushed red with blood. Stiles leans down to bite and suck at the toned muscles of his abdomen, follows the trail of dark hair down into Derek’s groin and breathes in deep the concentrated scent of Derek; musk and arousal, leather and sweat.

 

“Have you been remembering to take your tea?” Stiles murmurs into the inside of Derek’s thigh.

 

“Yes,” Derek gasps.

 

Stiles hums into his flesh. “That’s good, can’t have both of us conceiving out of wedlock, especially not the monarch. How would that look?”

 

Stiles licks a broad stripe up the palm of his hand hand wraps it around Derek’s cock and slides the other hand up Derek’s chest to squeeze the rapidly hardening nub of a nipple in between his fingers. Derek makes a choked sound of pleasure.

 

“I bet you want that though, to someday bear your own child, to bear my child. I know you want lots of children, maybe you’d like to carry the next one, take my seed deep within you and have your belly swell and your milk start to flow?”

 

Stiles has kept a steady rhythm on Derek’s cock as he speaks, but he pauses as he notices Derek begin to weep from his slit(something that usually doesn’t begin to happen until Derek’s very close to release) and hears the steady whine that Derek is making. He sits up, and looks at Derek who looks, gone, just gone. His pupils are blown out and his cheeks are flushed with arousal, his pulse is beating wildly in his neck and his mouth has fallen open with desire.

 

“Gods,” Stiles whispers as his own neglected cock jerks within his trousers and starts to ache with need. He rolls off of Derek who immediately keens at the loss. Stiles toes off his boots and flings off his own shirt and breeches before swiping the always present jar of Aide off of the nearest table and tossing it next to Derek on the bed. He stalks over to a duvet that has a robe thrown over the back of it and shrugs it over his shoulders on his way to the bedchamber door and raps softly on it, twice, with with the back of his knuckles. It opens after a second or two to reveal the turned away profile of Mame Reyes (Stiles’ personal favorite of the Royal Confidantes).

 

“The king will be indisposed for the rest of the evening,” he informs her. “We are not to be disturbed and will not require dinner until we send for it. This is a personal moment.”

 

Barring a declaration of war, no one will enter the king’s bedroom (and even then they’ll have to give more than fair warning), and all but Vernon Boyd will move out of earshot of the Royal Apartments.

 

“It shall be done,” Erica promises calmly, and the door snicks shut again. Stiles hears a flurry of movement on the other side and then silence. He gives it a second or two more, and then Derek’s hoarse, needy call of “Stiles,” draws him back to the bed, tossing the robe off of himself as he does.

 

It’s important that the dual nature of their sexual encounters be kept as discreet as possible, though Stiles realizes (with a rush of warmth in his heart) that that will change once they are married and he is named Prince Regent, and Derek is free to conceive as he pleases without risking a break in the chain of rulership. But until then, ignorance is bliss for the majority of the kingdom, and Stiles can tell that Derek is about to become very, very loud _and_ explicitly vocal.

 

Stiles grabs the base of his cock tightly as he takes in the sight of his king, skin flushed as he lies in wait for Stiles on ( _their_ ) bed with his cock weeping and balls heavy with his seed.

 

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, “Stop making me _wait._ ”

 

“I should, Stiles murmurs as he crawls back onto the bed, “I should make you wait, I should make you beg for it, I think I will, I think I’ll make my king beg for it.”

 

“Fuck Stiles,” Derek groans.

 

Stiles entraps Derek once more underneath his body and unscrews the lid of the Aide, dipping two of his fingers inside, coating them with the slippery liquid.  

 

“Open up for me,” he orders, and Derek lifts his hips and spreads his legs apart.

 

“Yes,” Derek hisses, and Stiles purrs, “Good boy,” in return.

 

He slicks the pucker of Derek’s hole and around it, moving his two fingers in circles. Derek clutches at the sheets underneath him and whines. Stiles was Derek’s first (and only) male lover, and it had been months before Derek had realized that what he gave to Stiles, he could have for himself too, and that what’s more, he needed it. That had been another epic miscommunication, Stiles realizes as he slides one finger inside Derek, clenching his teeth at the heat and tightness of it.

 

“Another,” Derek immediately demands.

 

“Take it,” Stiles agrees and obliges him.

 

Stiles tries to hold on to what he had been thinking about as a distraction to keep himself from coming untouched but he’s lost a hold of it, lost everything but Derek and sex and lust, desire and love and need as Derek rocks his hips and starts fucking himself back and forth on Stiles’ two fingers.

 

“Beg me for it,” Stiles orders, wrestling for control of himself as he spreads his fingers inside Derek and presses them against his walls, stretching him in preparation for Stiles’ length inside him.

 

“Please, Stiles,” Derek moans, “I need it, need you need your cock inside me, I’ll do anything, _please Stiles, please.”_

 

Stiles groans and drops his forehead down on Derek’s thigh and rubs his head along it, feeling the prickle of Derek’s hair against his skin. It feels like all the spit has dried up in his mouth, but he manages to rasp out, “Are you ready?”

 

“Yes,” Derek whines.

 

Stiles places his free hand and presses down over Derek’s heart. “Can you take me in now?” He asks louder and more forcefully, making sure it’s not just the sex-haze talking.

 

Derek’s answering, “Yes!” is so loud Stiles thinks it rattles the windows.

 

“Good,” Stiles growls as he withdraws his fingers and hooks his hands under Derek’s knees, spreading his legs open wider and Derek cants his hips upwards, his hole pulsing open and closed with want, slick with preparation.

 

“I’m not waiting any longer Derek, I’m going to be inside you, going to breed you, going to take you apart until the only thoughts you have are of me,” Stiles warns as he presses his hips forward to nudge the tip of his cock at Derek’s entrance.

 

“Stiles,” Derek shouts, “Stiles take me, take me now!”

 

“Tell me you're mine,” Stiles demands as he claims Derek’s ass with one hard thrust and slides all the way inside him, where it’s hot and slick and so tight, Stiles can feel it in the back of his spine.

 

Derek howls, and then manages to choke out, “Yours,” before Stiles withdraws his hips and slams forward again, and Derek’s wordless cry rips through the room.

 

“I’m going to fucking break you,” Stiles promises as he pounds his cock into Derek, “swell your belly with my seed, rut into you so hard you’ll feel me for days.”

 

Derek is beyond words, only mewls and cries and the gasps for air that Stiles is fucking out of him escape his mouth now. This isn’t going to last long, Stiles is going too hard and too fast, and it’s been _three fucking weeks_ since they’ve touched each other.

 

Stiles loses himself in the sweet yielding of Derek’s flesh and the needy pitch of his cries, the sight of his cock pistoning in and out of Derek’s ass and the utter wreck and ruin that is Derek’s face, wanton and pleasured.

 

“You were made for me,” Stiles grunts as he slows the tempo of his thrusts but increases the force, “made for this, so fucking tight and good for me,” Derek wails and fists both hands on his cock, and Stiles’ gaze locks onto the sight of the king’s length, thick and hard and slick with his fluids.

 

Stiles loses his rhythm as his release draws near, his balls tightening up and pressure building at the base of his spine, and then suddenly it’s there, taking over his body with the force and intensity of it as he spills himself inside Derek. He thinks he cries out Derek’s name as bliss overtakes him.

 

Then Derek clenches around him, his walls tightening and Stiles moans like he’s dying, his release being dragged out of him, with Derek fucking milking him for all he’s worth.

 

He comes back to himself a little bit to see that Derek is coating himself in his release beneath Stiles, and Stiles is gone again _still_ not done spilling his seed inside of Derek.

 

There’s a white out in his mind and pleasure in his bones that overtakes everything until, slowly, his orgasm begins to ebb and he reaches down to pull his cock from Derek’s ass. They both moan at the loss and Stiles lays himself flat on top of Derek, and now they’re both covered in the sweat and seed lying on Derek’s chest but Stiles can’t bring himself to care as he takes Derek’s lips for his own and they kiss through the aftershocks of their release, tongues and spit and grunts of pleasure; Derek’s cock twitching from where it’s trapped between them and every muscle in Stiles’ body quivering.

 

Stiles cards his fingers through Derek’s hair and Derek strokes his hands soothingly down Stiles’ flank.

 

“You know,” Stiles says softly from where he’s lying tucked into Derek’s side and stroking his brow after they’ve made the barest efforts to wipe each other down and rid themselves of the sheets they’ve just ruined, “You said something about proposing earlier, and just to clarify you did mean--“

 

“Marry me,” Derek says immediately. “Marry me and no other.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles says.

 

“Birth me heirs--”

 

“Yes.”

 

“--give me heirs to birth myself--”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Rule my kingdom with me as my king.”

 

Stiles scrunches up his nose at that one. “Well yes I’ll be your king but you actually mean to confer upon me Prince Regent, right?”

 

“No,” Derek says softly, “as my rightful husband and equal.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, suddenly feeling very small, “Are you sure I’m qualified?”

 

“To go to war? No,” Derek snorts, “To crush my snakes pit of a court beneath your heel? Yes.”

 

“Well,” Stiles will give him that one, “They’re all special little darlings, in their own sick and twisted ways.”

 

“To order executions and sentence prisoners? No. To ferret out conspiracy and tell me how much grain is in any of our fields at any given time? Yes.”

 

Stiles swallows and turns Derek’s head until their foreheads are pressed together. “Yes,” he whispers, meeting Derek’s beautiful gaze, “Yes to everything, yes to forever, yes to you.”

 

Derek smiles, then narrows his eyes at Stiles, “When you fondled that Countess Martin right in front of me--“

 

“I barely touched her,” Stiles squawks.

 

“ _Fondled_ her _in front_ of me-”

 

“Drama King,” Stiles mutters but Derek continues on.

 

“I wanted to bend you over my knee and whip you, then throw you down and take you on the steps beneath my throne for all the world to see.”

 

Stiles’ own eyes narrow in response.

 

“Well, when you turned me away from your door after three weeks of complete neglect, I wanted to stalk into your chambers, pull you on your knees before me and have you service my cock with your mouth as an apology.”

 

Derek smirks, “My king,” he whispers.

 

“My king,” Stiles whispers back.

 

They both sigh as Derek strokes his hand over Stiles’ belly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the gist of the mpreg here is that a long time ago the womenfolk was scarce for some reason, so BOOM males started getting pregnant. they're generally referred to as Fertiles, able to both impregnate and conceive. 
> 
> THAT IS THE FULL EXTENT OF THE WORLDBUILDING I AM PREPARED TO DO AT THIS TIME
> 
> Pharecoteau is just what google translate told me the French words for 'Beacon' and 'Hills' were. 
> 
> The tea they drink is rue and blue cohosh.
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://rizuno.tumblr.com/) a la Sterek. Sterek soufflé Sterek steamy buns Sterek pudding A VERITABLE STEREK SHMORGISHBOARD also I am there but no IGNORE ME I'M NOBODY GO ABOUT YOUR STEREK BUSINESS CITIZENS


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